At the ‘brotherly graves’ | History |Axisoflogic.com

In our conversations, the author of this article suggested I should include what I wrote to her:

I visited a mass cemetery in St Petersburg (Leningrad at the time) that was filled with the bodies of people who had died from starvation during the siege. There is an eternal flame and an honour guard, with sombre music softly playing. There are no indications of who is buried in any particular grave, but men and women were there when I visited, placing flowers and crying at whichever mound they had chosen as the resting place of their loved ones. I have never in my life - before or since - felt more like an intruder. The very private grief of these people was, of necessity, being played out in public. The visit also left me angry and with a burning desire that everyone on earth should see this site to reflect on what we have done to each other.

I had forgotten the name of the place, but it is Piscarevskoe. Alla also researched the cemetery and found this link to a photo display.

Thanks, Alla.

prh, ed.

The saddest sight I have seen at the military cemetery was unmarked mass graves.

Russians call the mass graves for soldiers - the ‘brotherly graves’ to separate them from any other common burials.

I have never seen such mass graves as I had seen at the military cemetery in Grodno. Of course, I’ve seen some memorial steles with the embossed list of the killed but nothing like this - large completely nameless graves.

I was standing, shocked, at the slabs under which the soldiers were buried. Somewhere far away or close, lived those who were waiting for them to return. Those who they loved and who perhaps were waiting their whole lives for a loved one to return are buried here. They lived with a hope that their dear father, son, brother, no matter who but the loved one, was somewhere alive, but he was lying here - among those who bravely fought for this city, for Belarus, for their Soviet Motherland.

I was standing by those unnamed graves and saw a soldier running in a long uncomfortable military greatcoat, wearing ridiculous round glasses. He should have sat over books in a library, but instead he was running among others attacking enemy positions before falling to the ground with a confused look. He fell never to rise again.

Another one, an elderly soldier participates in a bayonet charge. He is not like the young and reckless soldiers, he values his life, he has something to live for - his children and maybe grandchildren, but he, more than anyone else, has something to fight for. I see him also falling, slain by enemy.

A young soldier whispers something as he dies. Who is he calling with his last minutes of life, maybe his Mom? He was so young!

It won't be like in the movies: “this one will be rescued” - everyone will have been killed here. Young and not very young, daring and cautious, urban and rural, different nationalities – they will all be consumed by the bloody war grinder into this one mass grave.

No more individual destiny is here - All destinies joined together as one.

Everything is mixed up in this grave - someone's love, unforgiven grievances, hopes, plans for the future, tenderness and warmth, hatred - all this with a silent cry pounces on the one who visits mass graves.

I heard the roar and howl of shells, the whistle of flying bullets, screams, groans, and the crunch of ridiculous round glasses crushed by a fascist boot.

War has its own voice - it is the roaring cacophony of weapons mixed with the cries of people.

The following words knocked through this terrible roar:

No crosses are set over the brotherly graves,
No widows are weeping in here…

These words are hammering into our hearts and brains, so that we do not close our hearts, do not cover them with dollar bills, so everyone in this city knows where the unnamed graves with seven and a half thousand only unknown soldiers are, and everyone brings at least one flower on May 9th in memory and gratitude to those who gave their lives for us. Seven and a half thousand lie in these unnamed graves !!
People gifted from above see and feel what another would pass by without noticing. Then they, some with a picture, some with a film, and some like this - with a hoarse voice and monolithic words, knock on our hearts.

Where the earth was rearing up before,
The granite slabs rest now.

Some of those who were killed here maybe have grandchildren, somewhere in Siberia or Uzbekistan, but they will never come, they will not bring flowers to their graves, simply because they do not know where and how their loved ones died. After all, the relatives must have received notifications about their missing.

Someone was young and did not leave any sprout after him.

For reference:
There are 36 mass graves in this cemetery.
A total of 8,664 soldiers were buried here: 1115 people are known and 7547 people are unknown.

The song of the Russian Soviet bard Vladimir Vysotsky

Brotherly graves

No crosses are mounted on the brotherly graves,
No widows are weeping here.
Someone brings flowers to them,
The eternal flame was ignited here.
Where the earth was rearing up before,
The granite slabs rest now.
No more individual destiny is here -
All destinies joined together as one.
Through the Eternal Flame a flared tank is seen
And burning Russian houses,
Burning Smolensk and a burning Reichstag,
And a burning soldier’s heart.
You won't see widows in tears at the brotherly graves
But stronger people come here.
No crosses are set over the brotherly graves ...
But does it make it less painful?